A/N: Distorted-canon. Things that did not happen, happened. Things that happened, did not.
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Act I: Aperitif
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He's late.
I go in the direction of the explosion. Close. He's close and coming closer. Soon, close enough to touch, close enough to hold. The anticipation has my fingers trembling.
I see him before he sees me. There is a limp in his gait, his clothes torn and body drenched. His gaze is focused more inwards than out, as if he is being ripped from the inside too.
He stops.
"Who's there."
As I make my first step, his hands are already loaded with shuriken, his eyes spiraled into a deadly red. It is only when I am fully out of the tree's shade that his expression changes.
For a while, neither of us speak, just watching each other, trying to absorb as much detail of the moment as possible. Finally, he lowers his stance.
He lowers his stance, but not his guard, approaching in slow, cautious steps.
"Nii-san?"
A subtle change in tone. It no longer sounds indifferent, but tinted with a feeling. Which one is still undecided.
I make no attempt to move or meet him halfway. Paradoxically, this is what encourages him, draws him to me, and soon he is all but running.
"Nii-san?!"
At the last second, I notice my rising hand and lower it. Instead, my arms are wide open, to collect him in my embrace. He has grown, with more weight and strength than in my memories, yet he remains small. He remains a child, thin and delicate and barely fourteen years of age. I breathe in his scent, pulling him closer to my chest.
A beautiful child, and as of today, my child.
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It is not yet morning when he begins to stir. I glance back and smile. "We're almost there."
His eyes are half-open, as he stares lazily at the open road below. To my amusement, he pretends to have not heard me and goes back to sleep. Not once does he make any attempts to free himself from my back.
In my presence, he has no cold words of pride or hot slaps of shame. Just a happy silence, and before long, he has returned to slumber. That is fine; his journey up to this point has been of one tribulation after the next, and he is deserving of repose.
Our destination is near the wild grasslands, on the other side of a deep dividing river. The nearest people are in farmlands fifty kilometers south, and the nearest town is not for another twenty. We stop at the bottom of one hill, which, with the wave of a genjutsu, reveals to us a door.
By then, he is fully conscious, strapping his backpack as he readies to follow me inside. His eyes trail down the serpentine patterns along the corridor walls.
"Where are we?"
"A base."
As we step in deeper, the torches light up to guide our way.
"It belonged to an old enemy of mine. But the location is well hidden and the living is comfortable, so I saved it." The final door creaks open. I step aside. "I thought we might make this our home."
The stone walls and floors have given away to warm wood and jade. His gaze turns upwards, as he intakes the decadent lights and spiraling pillars, the scrolls of ink and silk. He gives it all one sweeping glance, before pocketing his hands and continuing inside.
Once at the heart of the atrium, his gaze has returned to me. It is clear from his eyes what he finds worthy of his attention and what he does not, just as it is clear from his language whom he wants attention from and whom he does not.
"Will you show me my room?"
I will, of anything he asks.
When I present him his bedroom, he is pleased. The space is clean and inviting, with a bed under two clan banners. Further inside is an entryway to a private bathroom. He drops down his backpack, as if to accept his claim to this territory.
"Where's yours?"
"Down this hall."
There is only one other door at the far end, yet he makes sure to see it. To check that I am keeping true to my word. This is more than just a cautionary confirmation, however. This is curiosity, and before he can ask me, I make my first request.
"Why don't you draw up a bath and tend to your wounds."
His eyes instantly dart back to me. "Where will you be?"
"In the kitchen. To prepare us a meal." To appease him further, "We can talk then."
He quiets. Then, he obeys.
Holding back a smile, I step out while he goes on to make himself decent. He will use the time to regain the civility he has shed during battle.
His skin is young and his blood is strong. As deep as his injuries are, they will recover fast and likely without scarring. Still, with a beauty like his, there is value in a little extra care.
When I return to his room, I note the folds of fresh clothes on his bed. I place on top a set of gauze and pins, then a bottle of medicinal ointment, the most potent I have.
Steam rolls out from the bathroom. There is no door, but the architecture is designed to hide its occupants from view. What it does not hide is sound, as every drop and ripple in water echoes through.
Sound and music, these things are far more enticing to the imagination.
Dangerous too.
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By the time he joins me, the meal has been set, the final hour in a week of preparation. The fowl. The lamb. A fruit and harvest of all colors. Nothing less for his homecoming.
And I know he is hungry. And I know he is parched. For substance and sustenance.
"Did you kill him?"
To the point.
"No."
No. He did not expect to hear that. His mind is working.
"I'll help you."
"You can't."
"I will. Did you find out who it is?"
"Yes."
"Then tell me."
"I will."
"Who!"
"Me."
He freezes. I should have slowed him down, reigned him in, but he pushes fast and hard, much more forcibly than he did in my memories. I would need to note that for the future.
Wine pours, rising halfway up my glass before I set down the bottle. The plums inside give a little float, then slowly sink to the bottom, where they will rest.
Meanwhile, he has reseated himself, so we may see each other on equal levels. Neither of us breaks our gaze. The silence that follows is a meditated one, of a conversation unspoken.
"Nothing funny," he says. It is a warning, one that I do not intend to ignore.
I bring the glass to my lips. "Tragedies are not meant to be."
Storytelling is an art, one that takes many seasons to master. Nuances in word and tone, in order and pace, in action and character. Too long, he will grow impatient. Too short, he will not understand.
First act, the setup.
The Second War. The war that Konoha started. The war our clan protested, the war that did not concern us. And yet, the war our clan fought, the war we bled for, sacrificed for, died for, the bodies of our kin cold on the battlefield, because we upheld our honor and commitment to the village.
Second act, the confrontation.
The village neglected to honor us. Instead of acknowledging our contributions, they took advantage of our dwindling numbers to shut down our voice. Shutted us out of the seat of power, marginalized us into further and further extremities. They refused to hear our appeal. They refused to consider negotiation. Oppression leads to resistance.
Third act, the resolution.
We refused to accept their disrespect of our bodies and our lives. We refused to bow. So they cut us down. They cut us down with our own sword.
I lied. This is not a tragedy, for the purpose of tragedies is to make the audience mourn.
This is a tale that incites, consumes him in fire, causes his eyes to spin without his knowing. This is a genre that is heart-pounding in its own way; it is alive.
Beating with hate. Beating with disgust.
I fold my hands. "Do you know, Sasuke, what it feels like to have your own body stolen from you? To be made a puppet of the very beings you despise. They used me to hurt them. The people I love. Our mother, our father, our blood and kin."
My hands clench together. I keep them restrained, hidden under the table.
"But no amount of power they had could make me hurt you."
He snaps out of his rage, a split second his grip loosens from the ceramic shards cutting into his palm. He is staring at you again, eyes dilated.
He is waiting for an ending that would return his heart to peace. He is waiting, he is expecting it, he is demanding it, even though nothing of our situation would suggest such an ending.
"They could not turn me against you, so they found another use for us. I would have never willingly separated from you, Sasuke. They ripped you from me. Even after I regained control of my body, I had no control. While you were at their mercy, I had no choice but to continue their dirty work."
A dark chuckle escapes. The dinner has gone ice cold. But our appetites, they have only begun.
"Six years in exile, to do all the unspeakable deeds they want accomplished but not associated with their name. No matter how suicidal, I did it. I did them all. Whatever they wanted. Whatever it took to keep you alive."
The desire to keep him alive. No matter how twisted and dark a person becomes, there is always one shimmer of light, one truth to their soul.
It appears I have made him mourn after all. His vision is blurred. He does not my pull away from my touch, from these hands so gentle on his skin. Hands that cannot ever be made to hurt him, not even in the faintest graze.
"I am so happy to see you alive."
One truth to the soul that consumes all.
It appears I have made my own body mourn as well.
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Act II: Velatura
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There is no feeling more profound than that of change. Of transformation and metamorphosis. Children exemplify this, small and lithe, with frail limbs and frailer hearts. But give them right condition to grow, and they will. Their strength. Their spirit. Their talents will sharpen alongside their minds. Each step is bolder than the last, sturdy in the rising dawn.
One day I return home bearing a gift. He is not in the usual places I suspect, for he has already taken yet another step without my knowing.
"What's here?" he asks as soon as I step behind him.
He is standing before a wall. Or what has appeared to be a wall until now. Already, he has removed all three layers of my genjutsu, as well the two of the ten seals to the barrier. Even the most experienced of shinobi would have difficulty cracking even one.
I could not help but smile in pride.
"Like I said, this place had a former master. We are only using a small portion of it."
"And in here lies the rest?"
"It's not as accommodating," I explain. "Mostly prisons and laboratories. I believe there might also be a library. Orochimaru was a collector of knowledge. He had his fondness for forbidden jutsu."
He is as curious as ever. "Forbidden in what ways?"
"He liked tinkering with the divide between life and death. Impossible cures. Immortality. Resurrection. I heard he once tried to summon an army of the dead."
His eyes light with possibilities. "Did he succeed?"
I chuckle. "I didn't get a chance to ask."
He is surprised when I let the seals remain broken. The barrier is in place for his protection. Should he be capable of breaking the rest, he will no longer need such protection.
I do not require more than a beckon to get him in my company. He doesn't ask where I lead him, knowing the answer will be revealed.
It is outside, in the valiant sun, that the silhouette of two noble beasts await.
"Is that…?"
He gravitates towards the first of the majestic black stallions.
"I thought it was about time I taught you to ride."
His enchantment fades to skepticism, then finally annoyance. "I'm faster than this animal."
"It's not a competition, Sasuke."
"Why do I need it?"
I typically have no tolerance for petulance; on him, it only increases my fondness. A consequence of love, I suppose.
"Not everything is done out of need," I say, brushing my fingers along the other steed. "Some things, you do for pleasure."
From above, I smirk at his reaction, already pulling at the reigns. He is welcomed to reject my invitation.
But of course, he never does. I can feel his burning stare into my back, and before long there is the expected sound of a yelp and collapse.
It takes a few humorous tries before he figures out the mount, and several more failures and falls thereafter. But he learns by example, and watching my movements is enough guidance.
By evening, his body is ridden with bruises. At the same time, he has already proven himself a master, riding across the plains as freely as the wind.
It is nothing short of incredible, as I specifically requested the merchant for an unbreakable horse. A petulant animal to match a petulant child. And yet, in the mere span of day, the child and the beast have found trust in one another, their instincts blended into one.
He passes me with unrestrained mirth.
"You're losing, nii-san."
"No need to make everything a competition."
"And not everything is done out of need," he tells me with a grin, before picking up speed. "Loser cooks dinner!"
It is his first time. I could have gone easier on him.
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At night, I kneel before his bed, applying more pressure. He behaves, the only indication of his pain the clenching of his jaw. After resetting the bone, I reach for the splint. There is a line between daring and reckless, and tonight he has crossed it.
After I finish my work, he coughs. "I'll… I'll cook dinner next week."
At my look, he corrects, "Next month. The whole month."
I study him, amused. He thinks I am displeased with him, though I cannot fathom why. The hubris he displayed in the fields does not bother me, and neither does the inconvenience afterwards. I can endure great troubles for performance, and his has been grand.
Still, modesty is a lovely look on him.
I finish the knot. "Until this arm is healed, you will do no such thing." I watch his distraught, and find myself in another smile.
"After it is healed, you will cook me a meal, and every meal after. That will be three times a day, every day, till the day you can best me." I lean in, close enough for my lips to touch his ear. "And it better be delicious."
At the door, I indulge in his speechlessness. "Don't lose, if you aren't prepared for the penalty."
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By spring, his skills are unrivaled in the manners of the horse and the bow. The task of the hunt naturally falls upon his hands.
Years of shinobi training by the village has equipped him with a readiness for battle. He has no reservations on dealing blows and injuries. His mind is sharp, focused on whatever it takes to achieve victory.
But there is a difference between an intent to win and an intent to kill. His hesitation will cost him. He understands the need to correct this part of himself, if he wishes to obtain my respect.
The arrow reflects in the eye of a buck. A piercing strike, clean and emotionless. No one is there to hear the animal fall.
The floor is damp, heavy iron and rope coiled on the walls of the shed. His hands are black but glisten with a sheen of red when held to the sun. For hours, there is only the sound of his work. Of ripping.
At the dinner table, I lean back, watching as he sets one plate after the next. The final dish is placed before me, the meat carefully carved, charred outside and bleeding within. It is bathed in a sauce of deep purple, a flavor of sweetness for my tongue.
He has come a far way from being a boy who could not even twist the neck of a rabbit.
When he seats himself, I can see in his eyes the undying desire to please. My pleasure is his pleasure; his pleasure mine.
After a first bite, I lower my knife. "You're getting better."
The praise keeps him warm.
"Did you confirm the rumors?"
"Hundred thousand ryou."
He scoffs. "For what crime?"
"Treason."
I pass to him a copy of the bingo book, of which he thumbs through. "It's quite a flattering photo of you," I comment.
He says nothing, simply flipping one more page. His lips quirk. "Ninety-eight million?"
My head tilts, rested against the tips of my fingers. "Possibly the only compliment the village has ever sent me."
The book closes. "Let's create our own."
My smile deepens. He has a list. By the end of that list will be the end of an era. Only time will tell what will arise from the ashes.
For a goal as ambitious as his, however, will require an army. There is a certain amount of poetic justice in raising one from the dead, but the living is often far more willing, if you know the right places to look.
My thumb traces the edges of cutlery. "Is there anyone you…" I force my hand to still, as I eye his reaction carefully. "...want personally?"
It is a deep question, one that has his mind turning. I am curious where the labyrinth leads, who he finds standing at the center of his grief.
"The Hokage."
Curious indeed.
"Not the man who ordered the massacre?"
No.
It is the duty of Root forces to eliminate threats to the village. The commander of Root has fulfilled his duty.
He has no feelings towards a man who owes him nothing. Our clan did not know this man. Our clan never gave this man wealth and tribute, acknowledgment and praise, submission and loyalty. This man never stood before every school inauguration with words of peace and love, of protection to each and all.
This man never assumed a duty he could not uphold, made promises he could not deliver, accepted recognition he did not deserve.
All shinobi of Konoha understand the meaning of accountability, of punishment for incompetence and failure. It is time its leaders did as well.
He will help me kill this man named Danzo. For any threats this man may have dealt me. For any abuse I may have suffered at his hands. In return...
"Give me the Hokage," he says. "I want to talk to him."
I could not have asked for words more piquant.
We raise our cups for a toast. Between us are the bones of our prey, their skeletons sharp in the air.
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Act III. Kundalini
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The sky is dark. Darker still are the branches and the creatures watching from above.
I do not give them any regard, my pace neither quickened nor slowed. Leisurely, I slip into my cloak, then fasten it close from the bottom up.
It is below their intelligence to attempt an attack, not when I need less than a finger to set the world alight.
So they wait, and they watch.
The next time I awaken, it is to a knock. There is a slight hesitation, before the door to my bedchamber pushes open.
Dark sheets slide down my shoulder. I prop up on one elbow, lazily watching him through the cracks of my fingers and loose strands of hair. The sound of his footsteps are dissonant.
"Nii-san," he whispers. "It's already evening."
I say nothing.
He apprehensively steps closer. "...nii-san?"
Swallowing, he reaches out. I tense under the touch, ready to recoil and strike. And I would have killed him there, had my body responded.
Had my body only. I remain still, unable to harm him, unable to punish him for his breach.
His hand leaves my arm to linger on my forehead.
Realization dawns, and he is out the door, running for the medical cabinets.
By the time I recover, three nights have already passed. The lost time proves costly, with crucial letters unsent and guests unattended. Plans are delicate things; even ones that have been seeded for years will wither if left a day without rain.
My mood is not foul for long, however. It is difficult to be upset when I look in the mirror and see him behind me.
We both stare into the glass, him at me, and me at us. There has never been a portraiture more perfect.
I rise.
"Show me your power."
He is surprised.
But then, he does.
He does exactly as I say, unleashing the cumulation of all our training, all his potential.
And what a potential it is, capable of obliterating the earth and collapsing the skies. Within him is the beginning of myths, of an ascent from man to legend.
His breath has gone deep, his skin wet. One final breath, and he becomes expressionless once more, vanished. Wings spread from above. A step, and he falls. Off the back of a mighty raptor, from the heavens back into our battle, bringing with him the forces of a god.
The air screams, the atmosphere torn down in two. He has blinded the world in light, deafened the world in sound. Time has frozen and space gives a shudder.
When it is over, the grasslands has been reshaped into canyons.
I release my hand; he falls to his knees. He has shown me his power, and nothing he has comes close to touching me.
I walk away, leaving only one of us disappointed.
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Once upon a time, I could imagine nothing more delectable than the taste of power. And so, I seized it. I tore it from the heavens, until I sat upon the throne myself, deified.
What I did not know was how anything in abundance loses taste, how my existence could become so trite, so soulless. How my heart, once beating with the highest of passions, would still, then rot.
Rot and decay. That is what I have become, as blood slowly suffocate me from within, a fine retribution from the angels.
My holy grail, swirling with bitterness. I accept my medicine from his hand, just as I accept my condition.
Smiling, I bring the rim to my lips. But never a fate I have not chosen myself.
"What are you hiding from me?"
His question is dead in the silence.
When I do not respond, his tension gives to violence. It covers his worries, his fears. He serves as witness to my third relapse, and he is not taking it well.
"Why are you not recovering?"
Why indeed. Why so cruel as to ruin something so perfect, as I rest my fingers on his cheek. I bring him to face me.
"I do wonder," I whisper, studying his features.
They say when children reach a certain age, the gods roll dice. And thus, the beautiful turn plain and the plain turn beautiful.
It is with my purest delight to see him beat even the most extraordinary of odds. His beauty becomes not only undeniable, it is proving true, the rare type that is permanent and will persist into adulthood.
He does not realize how he leaves my heart so alive, pulsing with all the desire that I have thought gone.
"You wouldn't be poisoning me, would you?" I chuckle darkly.
My lovely cupbearer, my undoing and ruin.
I let him go.
Or rather, that is what I intend, except my body has betrayed me again.
Betrayed me in the most unexpected of ways.
He is frozen as my lips leave his.
And then, he is awakened. His pupils are in dilation, his senses freed. The first of my colors bursting to life in his.
His expression falls solemn, and his eyes close when he shamelessly discards the boundaries between us once more.
The heat of breaths has blended into one.
"Don't play with me," he murmurs.
After he is gone, I am left in contemplation. My fingers run over my lips, my tongue over my fingers, savoring the aftertaste he has left behind.
Nature is full of surprises, it seems.
What I have mistaken for brotherly instinct has revealed itself to be something far more condemning. Primal. Something akin to shame swirls inside my stomach. Something that causes a shudder to the soul, causes my fingers to jerk, blindly in search of destruction.
I find my entire being filled with a raw, desperate need for penitence.
What a powerful feeling, this.
What a beautiful feeling.
The taste of iron again, the damning illness.
I laugh through blood-stained teeth.
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It is not power that I crave. The things I pursue now are far more revolutionary.
Things that leave the world in horror. In awe. At the height of sin.
He takes my place in the meeting of nine generals.
Never faster have men fallen to their knees.
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Act IV. Soare cu Dinti
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Back in his days of innocence, when he rode across the grasslands in joyous liberty, he had come to me with a curious discovery.
A predator, starved of prey. By some calamities of nature, one of its wings had broke, leaving it flightless. Its majesty lost in the mud.
He asked what I wish to be done with it.
With a smile, I told him to exercise his own judgment.
A forsaken animal, but he saw something worthwhile, something unfulfilled. His eyes wandered back to me.
Can it be tamed?
And that was when I chuckled.
No.
For some animals, no amount of destitution will rip their dignity, no amount of punishment will break their spirit. Raptors will die before they submit to a master.
However…
They do serve.
The change of one season, two, three, before the fall of a feather.
His footsteps paused, as he looked up to see a familiar silhouette.
Some animals, they will return on their own. And they will serve, down to their dying breath. Bleed without care, kill without hesitation.
Pawns move in accordance to fear. But the queen, the queen slaughters for love.
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A winter of ice, the last before the day of reckoning. All of my plans are reaching fruition, the seeds of grievance, the anger for blood. The cries of ten thousand men under a banner of vengeance, a concerto for the fall of a dynasty.
So close, so very close.
As was death.
In the tethering shadows of my cloak. Every step, sunken deeper and deeper into my grave.
In the month before battle, he wants a return to our base, to personally tend to my failing health. His decision is firm and not negotiable.
What he does not expect is for our travel to be interrupted.
Lightning comes to his command, obliterating every shadow clone that comes in our path.
Before him are the ghosts of a distance past. And with them, a warning. One final, desperate warning.
"Don't you get it, Sasuke, he's gone mad! He has brainwash-"
He is deaf to their words, the blow he makes with brutal finality.
"- one who did it, Sasuke-kun, he is the one who killed your family!"
Family. The word makes him stop and turn to the speaker, makes him raise his hand.
"I know."
The loveliest music exists in silence.
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The air has been too unforgiving, a bitter pain in my lungs. Only in the steam do I truly breathe, as he lowers my body into the water.
There, I lie in peaceful rest, listening to the ripples of water, enjoying the caress of his hands, his lips. He lingers on the goosebumps of my arms.
"You're still cold, nii-san."
I reach up. "Then warm me."
Together, we slide his robes off his shoulders, down his waist. They become discarded on the bathroom tiles, as he joins me in the waters.
I lean back, my neck left exposed for more of his touch. Roaming, deliberate. The stroke up my thigh. The glisten on his skin.
I want to chuckle. How much has my body rotted. How much has my soul.
But in this moment, I have transcended beyond the limits of both. I have no concerns of expiration, as long as I have his love like this.
My light.
My salvation.
Together, intertwined, pleasure pulsing through us in a steady rhythm.
Whatever afflictions that seek to strike me down will only ascend me higher. Soon I shall be free.
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Act V. Requiem
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More and more of them come flocking, creating grotesque outlines out of bare branches.
It doesn't stop us. It doesn't stop the things we do.
He does not listen to their cries. He does not care for anything except my well-being, as he cuts them down, one by one, as he has done with the ghosts.
My soup is of ginger and garlic and talons as black as the night.
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Despite his best efforts, the end is near.
The last of my strength has left me, leaving me confined to the bed. It does not matter; everything has already been set in motion. They have been moving in accordance since the day he entered my arms.
Against my protests, he is off in search of a cure. I already know where he will go, as the tenth seal of the barrier becomes unlocked.
I already know what knowledge he will bring upon his resurfacing.
The ritual he will perform.
The tremble in my hand gets progressively worse. He seizes my slip in control, bringing my knuckles up for a kiss, pressing them against his forehead.
"This is foolish, little brother," I say endearingly. "There is no human sacrifice within range."
"You don't need one." He lets go, in favor for stepping back into the circle. "You don't belong inside anyone else."
And so, his weapons fall. His sash. Blood drips off his fingernails, feeding the inscriptions with whispers of promise, of offering.
This is not a sacrifice. There will be no fight for dominance, no battle of wills.
This is an open invitation.
The glow intensifies, hiding my face in shadow, my shaking laugh, the sinking dread.
Finally.
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My hand has stilled. For the first time in years, I feel no tension, no conflict, no need for restraint.
Only emptiness.
I am empty.
"Finally we are together."
The torch light flickers, illuminating his back as he steps out the circle.
It occurs to me something is wrong. Terribly wrong, as I try to move and cannot, left sunken further and further into the grave.
I attempt to croak his name, but he never turns around.
He does not hear me.
He does not see me.
He has made it clear from the first day who he will give his attention and who he will not. And yet, a rage seeps to my core when he dares treat me the same as other men, as the furniture in the room.
All the years I have nurtured him, trained him, loved him. How I have loved him, spoiled him, provided him a life of such gratification and joy.
He will look at me.
My wrath morphs into horror when the door opens. A spiral of red, the vestige of a grin. The maddening grin of sweet vengeance.
"One down, nii-san."
The doorway collapses into rubble, the light in the chamber extinguished.
Nature steals the finale.